


somewhere before disaster

by loveontop



Category: Brooklyn Nine-Nine (TV)
Genre: F/F, Hurt/Comfort, POV Second Person, Post-Break Up, Recreational Drug Use, i guess, stupid adrian, super recycled, yall might know this one
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-17
Updated: 2019-03-17
Packaged: 2019-11-23 06:05:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,450
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18148061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/loveontop/pseuds/loveontop
Summary: "So now you're alone with yourself and even though it's terrifying, you think this is the moment when you make the best decision of your life. You think it's safe to say, somewhere a bit further away from disaster and stating the fucking obvious, that you're in love with the girl who thinks Solange’s father is the wind god. It's a weird kind of realization— it feels nothing like the nerves Pimento had given you at first, or the overwhelming guilt loving her in secret brought. Instead, it's a warm feeling that roots itself at the bottom of your stomach. It scares you how comfortably it settles with you, but it also blisses you out. Stay like that and you'll reach the fucking sun."(Rosa dumps Adrian and finds herself knocking on Gina's door.)





	somewhere before disaster

**Author's Note:**

> i actually wrote this 1 or 2 years ago but since i surprisingly don't hate it, here it is again.

It occurs to you, somewhere before disaster, that Pimento was not your best decision. The realisation doesn’t hit you as suddenly as it hit others— you begin to think you always knew you’d regret him; maybe that raspy voice inside your head has something to do with it.

 

You knew there were things about the way he treats your relationship that unnerved you and set fire to the wrong ends, but that’s not what makes you put your foot down. It’s not the mental instability, which you were always aware of and never bothered by. It’s not the weeks of blank spaces between the few dates you went on together, even though you’d made it painfully clear that you needed to know where the both of you stood. It’s not even the way Pimento talks to Gina, brows furrowed, nose raised proudly, like that isn’t your friend, like she isn’t allowed to care about you.

 

What makes you put the foot down is all of that and yet none of it— a combination of all the triggers that Pimento pulls, the insecurities he nurtures, the safety he takes away by not putting any thought into anything you ever do. He tries to keep himself in line with the goddamn Paul act, but he’ll always use your strength as an anchor.

 

And you know that— jesus, do you know that. You’ve spent years building a castle for yourself, because back then you were too starved (for solitude, compassion, a little bit of relief, anything) and you knew you’d kill everything you had if you allowed your hunger to lead you on (you remember thinking you were broken, that there was something perverted inside of you that should never be let out of its cage for the sake of you and everyone else. You’d dreamt of it: the blood used to rim your eyes and it terrified you).

 

You know it, but Pimento isn’t supposed to. Maybe (most likely) he doesn’t, and his shame isn’t meant to be analysed. But regardless, he isn’t supposed to make you feel trapped within all you’re capable of. That’s not how relationships work, if Jake and Amy are anything to go by.

 

Whenever you attempt to talk to him, he looks at you like he won’t sprint away. But you’re already timing his race.

 

For a while you try to match his pace, because you think it suits you. You swallow your pride and take everything he mumbles out, but it occurs you, somewhere before disaster, that you can’t ignore all the red lights in your head (and Gina isn’t there to distract you anymore).

 

Because yes, you’ve managed to push her away with your engagement and your stubbornness.  _ Well done _ , you told yourself once you realized this.  _ You’ve managed to get rid of the only person who trusted you from the start. _

 

So you march up to Pimento on a Monday while he’s catching a break from slicing an office chair open, you sit him down and you say:

 

“Let’s talk.”

 

“About what?”  _ He’s not worth it, he’s not worth it, he’s not worth it. _

 

“You know what,” you say, growl, whatever. You sigh and look down at your hands where you’re currently playing with your ring (self-made and regretted). “Actually, no, you probably don’t.”

 

He’s staring at you like you’re speaking Spanish _ (are you?) _ You fight the urge to facepalm yourself.

 

“Come on, Adrian,” you say. Every word rolls off your tongue like toxins, alien; maybe it’s because you know what you’ll do after. “Look, you’re a great guy—”

 

“I don’t need to hear the but—”

 

“—but I don’t think we’re good at this ‘mutual understanding’ thing.” Holt would be proud. “So it’s over.”

 

He nods with his gaze away like he expects you to say something else  _ (should you?). _ You don’t stay, because you sure as hell won’t give him that ‘it’s not you, it’s me’ bullshit (it was him, you screech on the inside, sounding husky and dramatic and  _ oh my god, when will it stop _ ).

 

You hear the crash of a computer, leave the building and allow the speed to envelop you like you haven’t in awhile. You don’t exist for a minute or ten: you’ve forgotten what racing does to you, how you can always speak with your best version as long as you’re fast enough. This is the healthiest thing you’ve done in months. You’re sorry it took so long, ashamed of how small and unworthy you feel under the glare of a very judgemental moon that tries to get you to stop and look at her. You don’t: you’re on a mission.

 

At some point it stops. You shake your head to clear it and you look around. Does it surprise you where you are?

 

“Rosa, Rosa, Rosa.”

 

Of course it doesn’t, because you’re an idiot and you need her.

 

“Rosa,” Gina repeats, somehow knowing to go outside at the right time. “You haven’t done that in a while.” Your stunts. She used to cheer, laugh into your shoulder and hold tight to your waist.

 

You let out a smile and she narrows her eyes at you. She knows, you decide; she remembers.

 

“What’s up, traitor?”

 

She’s been calling you that ever since you traded Babylon for another type of lust.

 

“I dumped him,” you say, running your tongue over your lip so you don’t scream. You don’t have to look up to know Gina is staring at you from under the street light, even but you do.

 

“Should I invite more people to the party?” You ignore her. You’re not sad, you think as you hop off your bike to lean against it. In fact, you feel so relieved you could cry, but you also feel like now the world is weighing on your shoulders. You feel like you’ve disappointed it, somehow. All this time you’ve been disappointing Gina, maybe you’ve made the universe upset as well. All of a sudden, you really feel the need to punch someone.

 

“Can we go somewhere else?”

 

Gina looks like she’s about to say something, but then she merely shrugs and comes closer.

 

“Where do you wanna go?”

 

‘ _ A bar, an island, your arms, nowhere.’ _

 

You bite your cheek from the inside. “I don’t know.”

 

She clasps her hands together to let you know she’s still above everything. “I was just about to finish a bowl, you’re welcome to join me if that’s still your thing.” You know this. This is familiar: this is Gina wearing your shirts and nothing else and you kissing her cheek between swigs and winks. This is Gina leading you up the stairs and pinning you between the bed and herself. This is Gina talking and you laughing; this is you talking and her listening. This is what you need, but you’re not sure it’ll happen.

 

“Are you coming? Or should I carry you this time?”

 

_ I carried you one time _ , you think, but you trail after her, always beside her, always aware of your shivers and her voice. You’d do it again, you decide within seconds.

 

You plop yourself on her sofa and Gina drops on the other end, legs mixing somewhere in the middle. Those are your usual places, your usual bare feet and your usual eye contact.

 

She doesn’t ask anything. She’s given you a glass of whiscoke and you’re downing it like they will pay you; music has been turned down the minimum so that can you hear Gina say she likes what you’ve done with your hair.

 

Your hand reaches out to touch the strand of pink. “You do?” You’re frowning, feeling the urge to un-dye it now that people know.

 

“Although I think you should have gone for something redder.”  _ Your  _ color. Always yours: never mild.

 

You close your eyes for a second. “Actually, I came here to talk.” There. You said it. “I just— I need this off my chest,” avoiding her gaze god knows why.

 

“M’kay,” she passes the blunt.

 

“I, uh, I’m not sure what to begin with—”

 

“Maybe with the fact that he was a pig,” Gina mutters into her drink, the little that is left. No one hears.

 

“He came into the precinct out of nowhere, with this backstory and a knife behind his ear. At first I thought I was into him, what with the mysterious bullshit he played out. I fell for it like an idiot. We all did.” Gina stays silent. You are hit by the realisation that your legs aren’t touching anymore: Gina has folded hers close to herself, as if huddling for warmth.

 

“And there was you—” you resent everything you’ve evereverever felt. “Before anyone else, I saw you.”  _ (Is it a lie?) _ “I don’t…” You don’t want to say that you didn’t know where you stood with her. That’s not true— or maybe it is, but it’s not an excuse. There are no excuses with her, you think, and that you tell her. “I had to come to terms with it. Terry was right,” you admit, “and Jake was kinda right, too. Pimento was an asshole. He left because he was a coward.”

 

Gina’s lip is close to giving into the pressure, but you know she’s holding it in for you. And after everything you’ve done, you come back to where you always seem to be: admiration.

 

“At first it was great. It was like he really cared. I even thought the ‘psychopath’ thing was hot—”

 

“That’s your type, isn’t it?”

 

You insides clench— lungs, heart, throat, all of it. You go on because it’s late and Gina hits like ecstasy.

 

“But then everything got fucked up.” Your voice cracks and the apartment is cold without any music on it (when did she turn it off?); the couch is not the same if you can’t feel Gina by your side.

 

“I kinda feel like you deserved it, Rosa.”

 

She always says your name. You don’t know why, but there are times when you like that. It’s easier to know when she’s genuine— or as genuine as Gina Linetti gets.  There are other times, though, where it just makes the blow harsher. Like it does now, with your eyes all cold and wet and her pride on the verge of collapsing.

 

You know you did deserve it. You also know you deserve this cold treatment you’re getting, and you know that you’re lucky to just be sitting where you are sitting. She could have cut you out of her life by now, but she hasn’t. You soak in that thought and it gives you all the courage in the world.

 

“I did,” you mutter, wince. You don’t know what you deserved, exactly. A relationship that was bound to fail? That’s human nature.

 

“Still in denial, Rosa?” She can read you through your skin and it petrifies you. “Have more whiskey, kid.” She doesn’t say ‘you know where it is,’ because it hurts. It hurts to know you were the one to build her booze shelf. It hurts to remember how much you blushed and how hard you punched Hitchcock for pointing out the marks in your neck.

 

Gina’s favorite spot.

 

You get up, go into the kitchen as the music comes back. But you stop in the middle of everything: you stop and try to think. Should you leave? Are you getting too comfortable again? You crushed Gina’s heart a few weeks ago; now you’ve come to her in weakness like the worst of old acquaintances.

 

Something catches your attention when you’re walking past her room again: it’s her axe. Your axe. Her axe. You gave it to her after the break-in, before your first night slept at hers and you last night wondering if it was just you. You’re about to step into the room, but you don’t.  _ So? _ She still keeps it under her bed. Whatever.

 

Gina’s head is tipped back against the sofa’s arm when you return; her eyes are closed and she’s swaying to the music. You don’t stop to watch: that can’t be healthy.

 

“You kept the axe,” you comment. She looks at you, whatever.

 

“I’m can’t believe you thought I wouldn’t, Rosa.”

 

No one says anything after that. You don’t need to. You’re sitting next to her now, and the trees are melting outside; Gina’s crawling over to you now, and her eyes are sharp and fixated and sharp and beautiful and sharp and beautiful, beautiful, beautiful—

 

She’s beautiful, but it’s nothing new.

 

“It took you so long to realise Pimento was a baby— it just just proves my point,” she drawls, even though her hand is on your neck. “You’re all terrible detectives.”

 

You don’t know what to do. You’re clueless and you’re sure she knows it: she’s confusing you in a way you’re not used to. Is this what she makes the rest of the world feel?

 

In a moment of absolute smallness, you want her to squeeze your hand and tell you she forgives you. You want her to grab her phone and tweet something about this, uncensored. You want her to grab you by your shoulders and shake you until you snap out of it. You want her to kiss your neck and break your nose. You want her to let go and let you go, so that your toxic romance days are over and everything can go back to being the way it was.

 

“Please.” It slips out of your lips before you remember you’re not dreaming. And it changes something.

 

She blinks. “Really? But you’re a terrible loser.”

 

“What?”

 

She seems to realise you weren’t listening, falls back into place. No longer touching, again. “Never mind,” she says, voice so dry a camel flashes past the building.

 

You light another one and hope it doesn’t last.

 

“Look, Gina, I’m sorry.” You are the worst, you decide.

 

“For what?” Her voice is flat. It shouldn’t, not now and not ever. You rack your brain for a way to bring back the melody— you can’t stand seeing her like this.

 

The question isn't serious but you take it to the heart. “For everything.” You stand up and catch a glimpse of her own, breaking. But you're not leaving (for once). You move to her side of the couch and straddle her waist. There’s not much you can do now, and you sure as hell won’t force her to let you back into her life. You messed up and it’s fine. Your mind is intoxicated and there’s no room for pain— no guilt, either, just an unstoppable will to try and make things better. Losing Gina for good would be devastating, but you’re not leaving without giving it a shot. Cupping her face with both hands, you say, “I’m sorry.”

 

Before you know it, the words are tumbling down in whispers. You tell her you’re sorry for everything (again). For breaking her heart, for not listening, for fucking up. For leaving, for trusting him but not trusting her. For abandoning the most precious friendship you’ve ever had. For being a coward. For letting a small doubt jeopardize your love for her. For being so damn selfish, for not realizing how much you needed her, how incomplete your life was without her— because people say that no one will love you until you love yourself, but  _ god _ , being with Gina makes you feel like you’ve never hated yourself. You tell her you’re sorry for thinking you could afford to let her go. For not trying to get him back. You’re crying a bit by the time you say you’re sorry for being so stupid, for being so blind and—

 

“—honestly,  _ truly  _ oblivious.”

 

And then her lips are on yours.

 

You let out a slight hum into the kiss as her arms wrap around your waist. Only a small part of your brain is thinking  _ you don’t deserve this _ : the majority of it is trying to remember how to breathe.

 

You remember this. This, too, is familiar. Her lips fit with yours perfectly. You hadn’t realized how much you needed her taste until now, with Gina’s chest rising and falling steadily as she pulls away to kiss you again. For a moment everything is red and it tastes of honey; you melt into it because you’ve never known anything else.

 

But you pull away. You have to. “Are you sure this is how you want this to go?”

 

“Shh,” she puts a finger to your swollen lips. “Don’t let me think about this.”

 

“But—”

 

“You’re stupid, not deaf, Rosa.” It feels like she needs an answer, so you nod, and Gina smiles. She kisses you once, short and gentle. “We’ll talk in the morning.” Apparently, you’re staying the night. Not that you have anywhere else to be.

 

You kiss her again and this time it lasts.

 

It occurs to you, right now, during the disaster, that maybe the reason why you’ll always come back to Gina is that she leaves the talking for later. It’s obvious that it’s not your forte, and you’re sure that you’d rather never talk again than not kiss Gina tonight.

 

She suddenly breaks the kiss to laugh into your shoulder, and the smile on your face says it all. You fall into her arms, shaking alongside her as she hugs you closer if humanly possible. It’s okay, you decide. It’ll be okay, as it always is.

 

You lay there with her until she falls asleep, and you carry her to her room with strength you didn't know you still had. Then you close the door behind you and will yourself not to stay the night— everything looks good between you and her, but you don't want to push her comfort too far yet.

 

So now you're alone with yourself and even though it's terrifying, you think this is the moment when you make the best decision of your life. You think it's safe to say, somewhere a bit further away from disaster and stating the fucking obvious, that you're in love with the girl who thinks Solange’s father is the wind god. It's a weird kind of realization— it feels nothing like the nerves Pimento had given you at first, or the overwhelming guilt loving her in secret brought. Instead, it's a warm feeling that roots itself at the bottom of your stomach. It scares you how comfortably it settles with you, but it also blisses you out. Stay like that and you'll reach the fucking sun.

 

It should scare you, because it's Gina. Gina, who's always been radiant smiles and secret touches and you know this new flutter of your heart can ruin them. It should scare you, but it doesn't, because it's Gina, who's accepted you with all your faults pretty much from the start. Sure, she's so different and sometimes says the wrong thing, but she's willing to turn her music down to hear your rants.

 

That's probably why you confide in her so easily: because she may be overwhelming when she needs something, but she understands there are things that must stay between the two of you and honors that. There's also the excessive trust she puts in you, just like that. From the beginning, all you offered her for her help was a cup of poison, and she just took your word for it. You remember all the things she's told you since then.

 

You remember the time Gina cried and went to you first. That night you let her hold onto you, because Holt had called to tell her that he was sorry for not going to her latest performance, and ended up getting a bit too honest. You let her kiss your neck, collarbones, sternum, wherever. You knew kissing calmed her like speeding calmed you.

 

The thing with the both of you is that you're each other's coping mechanism; you need each other— it's never just you and it's never just her. But even though her secrets are hers and her laughs are hers, too, she shares them with you and you don't see why that wouldn't be enough. So once it occurs to you that you really do love her like that, you let that love settle in because you don't think you could breathe without it. You'll tell her soon, you convince yourself, tomorrow or next month, but for now, you're just going to leave things as they are.

 

(You end up telling her in a week. It's an accident and people hear you, but you can't bring yourself to care because she looks happy. You think this will work, but you don't think for much longer after she says it back and the walls come crashing down).

**Author's Note:**

> thx for reading and don't eat meat guys


End file.
